


Fear And Lothering In South Thedas

by AkiRah



Series: Hold The Sky [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair and Morrigan bickering a lot, Arguments and illegal mages, Gen, Hold The Sky AU, Leliana talks to god, Lothering sucks, the immediate aftermath of ostagar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Teryn Loghain's betrayal at Ostagar, Surana and Alistair wake up in the care of Flemeth: Fabled Witch of the Wilds. From here, they must assemble and army and defeat the Blight. A task made more complicated when they discover that the Traitor Loghain has put a bounty on their heads. First Stop: Lothering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Living, thanks to a Living Legend.

There was pain. A dull, throbbing pain, like someone was poking lightly at an unusually tender bruise just above her breast. Surana winced. “Jowan,” she murmured, twisted, “stop it. That hurt--” 

The sound of her voice woke her more fully and Surana remembered. She wasn’t at the tower. It had been five? Maybe six days now since Duncan had taken her away from Kinloch Hold. Jowan was a blood mage. 

Why did she hurt? 

She tried to think, shifting between what had happened and what had been the nightmare from the Joining. She and Alistair had gone to the tower. They’d lit the beacon. Then . . . she’d been shot? She shifted. Had the darkspawn been real? There had been so many of them. There was no way she would have survived that. 

Surana opened her eyes. She was inside. Inside a building. The roof was thatched with straw. There was a mattress beneath her, uncomfortable but thicker than her bed roll. She was naked. Naked was new. Everything was new. There were bandages around her chest and stomach, but it didn’t hurt too badly to keep her from moving. Surana rolled to sitting. 

“Ah,” a familiar, purring voice said. Surana blinked and focused her attention, and surprise, on Morrigan, standing near a bookshelf. “Your eyes finally open. Mother shall be pleased.” 

Surana managed a weak and pitiful attempt at a smile and a pained shrug. “I remember you, Morrigan, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes. We are in the Wilds where I am bandaging your wounds.” Morrigan explained. Surana nodded, turning her head to inspect the cottage. It was bigger on the inside than it seemed from outdoors. “How does your memory fare? Do you remember Mother’s rescue?”

Surana shook her head and frowned. “No, I--I remember being overwhelmed by--Wait.” Her eyes went wide and found Morrigan’s in a panic. “What happened to the King? The Army? _Alistair_?” 

_Why was she in The Wilds and not back in the Warden encampment?_

“The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field,” Morrigan explained in an indecently casual tone. Surana was too busy staring at her in horrified shock to comment on _that_ , too swept up in _what_ Morrigan was saying to care how it was said. “The darkspawn won your battle. Those he abandoned were massacred.”

“He--wha--”

“Your friend…” Morrigan looked over at the door for a moment and then back to Surana. “He is not taking it well.” 

“Neither am--My friend? Alistair? He’s alive?” Surana dropped her hand into her palm. That was something, at least. Not much, not enough, but _something_. 

“The suspicious, dim-witted one who was with you earlier, yes.” Morrigan said. 

Surana sagged with visible relief and and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank the Maker.” 

“He is outside by the fire. Mother asked to see you when you awoke.” 

Surana dropped her hand back to her knee and raised her head, managing a miserable smile. “I’ll go speak with her immediately then. Thank you, Morrigan, for help us.” 

Morrigan blanched with surprise. “I--you are welcome.” She didn’t fidget when she was taken off guard, Surana noticed. Instead, Morrigan went still. “Though, Mother did most of the work. I am no healer.” Morrigan recovered and touched her chest, shaking her head. 

“Were they bad? My injuries, that is.”

“Yes. But I expect you will be fine. The darkspawn did nothing mother could not heal.” 

“And, Alistair. Is he--”

“He is . . .” Morrigan paused, “as you are. I supposed it would be unkind to say he is being childish.” 

Surana immediately wanted to say that, yes, that would be _exceedingly_ unkind. Alistair had just lost his friends, his . . . whatever Duncan was. However Alistair was behaving was fine after what had happened. 

But she didn’t feel like arguing with the woman who had just saved her life. Particularly not while naked. “I’ll go then. Thank you again.” 

Morrigan indicated the pile of Surana’s possessions near the bed, some robes, though not her uniform, waited washed and folded neatly with her staff and her boots. Surana dressed, gathered her long red hair back and began to braid it as she left the cottage. 

“See, here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much young man.” Morrigan’s mother clicked her tongue as Surana exited the hut and Alistair, who had been studing his reflection in the marsh, turned around, eyes going wide when he saw her. 

“Neria, you, you’re alive! I thought you were dead for sure!” 

Surana shook her head and kept braiding her hair, pulling each part taut to keep the braid as tight and narrow as she could. Something for her anxious fingers to work on. “I’m fine, thank to Morrigan’s mother. Thank you for worrying.” 

“This doesn’t seem real.” Alistair sagged. “If not for Morrigan’s mother we’d both be dead on top of that tower.” 

“Do not talk about me as if I were not present, boy.” Morrigan’s mother interjected. 

Alistair turned, eyebrows raising and coming together in miserable apology and Surana wished that both Morrigan _and_ her mother would give the poor man a rest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t, but I . . . what should we call you?” Alistair asked. “You never gave us your name.” 

Surana curled her hand over Alistair’s forearm and gave a small squeeze, the chainmail moved beneath her fingers and Alistair’s chin rose a little bit higher in response to the comfort she offered. 

“Names are pretty, but useless.” Morrigan’s mother batted the sentiment aside, speaking as much with her gnarled hands as she did with her mouth. Surana expected the hands made more sense, but the same could be said of half the older mages in the Circle, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. “The Chasind folk call me Flemeth. I suppose it will do.” 

Surana’s jaw dropped open and she forced it to close. Alistair didn’t have the same amount of tact. “ _Flemeth_?” he repeated incredulously. “ _The_ Flemeth, from legend? Daveth was right. You’re a witch of the wilds.” 

“And what does that mean?” Flemeth challenged. “I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well.” 

Alistair hesitated at that. 

Surana shook her head very slightly, _Templars_.

“Thank you,” she said, squeezing Alistair’s forearm again. “You saved our lives. Is there anyway we can repay you?” 

Flemeth laughed, though this time it was kinder than when she had laughed at either Morrigan or Alistair. “All I wish for you to do is what you are _meant_ to do. It has always been the Grey Warden’s duty to unite the lands against the Blight.” Flemeth cocked her head, her yellow eyes bright in her worn face. “Or did that change when I wasn’t looking?” 

_”From here on, you two are on your own, remember that you are both Grey Wardens and I expect you to be worthy of that title.”_

Duncan’s last words rang in Surana’s head and she let go of Alistair’s arm to meet the challenge in Flemeth’s eyes. “Of course not.”

When they had stripped her to bandage her wounds, Flemeth and Morrigan had left her pendant in place. It sat heavy on her breast bone. A reminder of all that had been sacrificed and all that must be sacrificed to end the Blight. 

“But we _were_ fighting the darkspawn!” Alistair interjected. “Ca--The King had nearly defeated them! Why would Loghain do this?” 

Flemeth shrugged. “Who can say? Men’s hearts hold shadows darker than any tainted creature. Perhaps he believes the Blight is an enemy he can outmaneuver. Perhaps we doesn’t see that the evil behind it is the true threat.” 

“The Archdemon.” Alistair wrinkled his nose. 

“What _is_ this archdemon, exactly?” Surana asked. “Was it the dragon thing I saw after--yeah.” She wasn’t sure exactly how much she was allowed to say about the Joining other than she couldn’t tell people what it entailed. For the time being, she would skirt around anything less vague than “yeah” and some wiggly hand-gestures. Just to be safe. 

“It is said that, long ago, the Maker sent the Old Gods of the ancient Tevinter Imperium to slumber in prisons deep beneath the surface. An archdemon is an old god awakened and tainted by darkspawn. Believe _that_ or not, history says it is a fearsome and immortal thing. Only fools ignore history.” 

Surana frowned, feeling worse about their odds, but unsurprised. “Right then. We should . . . we should contact the rest of the Grey Wardens. King Cailan mentioned that he had sent word to Orlais, right?” 

Alistair nodded. “They’ll arrive if they can, but I suspect Loghain has taken steps to stop them. We must assume they won’t arrive in time.”

“That--he’s _insane_ ,” Surana growled. “Why could he possibly hope to gain by betraying the King?” 

The minute the words were out of her mouth, Surana felt like a fool. He probably hoped to gain what most people would if they had the gall to commit high treason: Power. Loghain was _probably_ out to take the throne for himself, but that contradicted everything she had ever heard about the Hero of The River Dane. Facts would win out over fictions every time.

“The throne? He’s the Queen’s father,” Alistair said. “Still, I can’t see how he would get away with murder.”

“You speak as though he would be the first king to gain his throne that way,” Flemeth brusquely replied. “Grow up, Boy!” 

Alistair glared at her. “If Arl Eamon knew what he did, he would never stand for it.” Alistair explained, clearly offended at being treated like a starry-eyed child. “The _Landsmeet_ would never stand for it. There would be civil war!” 

“Arl Eamon?” Surana asked. “The Arl of Redcliffe?” 

Redcliffe was close to the tower, comparatively. No one, save the Grand Cleric and _theoretically_ (though rarely in practice) the King ruled over the Tower in any political sense. But it had been explained to Surana when she was very young that understanding the political climate around Lake Calenhad was important in case something changed, usually for the worst. 

“Eamon wasn’t at Ostagar. He still has all his men.” Alistair pounded his right fist into his left palm. “ _And_ he was Cailan’s uncle. I know him. He’s a good man, respected in the Landsmeet. We could go to Redcliffe and appeal to him for help.” 

Surana nodded, feeling better now that an actual _plan_ was forming. “Good idea. Are there other allies we might be able to call on?” 

“Of course!” Alistair lit up, and though she knew it was temporary, it warmed Surana to see. “The treaties! Grey Wardens can demand held from elves, dwarves, mages, and other places. They’re obligated to help us during a Blight.” 

“I may be old.” Flemeth crossed her arms over her chest and rocked her weight. “But Elves, dwarves, mages, this Arl Eamon and whatever else . . . that sounds like an army to me.” 

“Can we do this?” Alistair turned to look at Surana and she took a step back, silently questioning why _she_ was being asked. “Go to Redcliffe and these other places and . . . build an army?” 

Surana reached up to her breast bone and curled a hand around her pendant. “Why not? Isn’t that what Grey Wardens do?” 

“So you are set then,” Flemeth lowered her arms. “Ready to be Grey Wardens.” 

Surana shrugged. “As ready as is reasonable, considering the circumstances.”

“Good. Now, there is one more thing I can offer you.” Flemeth turned as Morrigan emerged from the hut and made her way over, movements as fluid as ever. 

“The stew is bubbling, Mother dear,” Morrigan said, the accent on _dear_ coming across as almost insubordinate. “Shall we have two guests for dinner or none?” 

“The Grey Wardens are leaving, and you will be joining them.” 

Surana and Alistair looked at each other in surprise (and, on Alistair’s part at least, moderately frightened annoyance). 

“Such a sha-- _what?_ ” Morrigan interrupted herself and whirled on her mother. 

Flemeth, in the fashion Surana had come to expect, chortled. “You heard me girl. Last time I looked you had ears.” 

“I…” Surana blinked slowly. They would certainly need the help. “I think that’s an excellent idea.” 

“Have _I_ no say in this?” Morrigan demanded. 

Flemeth answered with a disdainful look, arms re-folding over her chest and her yellow eyes unimpressed at Morrigan’s outrage. “You have been itching to get out of the Wilds for years. Here is your chance.” Flemeth turned back to Alistair and Surana. “As for you, Grey Wardens, consider this repayment for your lives.”

Surana nodded. “Very well, we’ll take her with us.” 

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth,” Alistair said, doing _exactly_ that. “But, won’t this add to our problems?”

Surana rolled her eyes almost _audibly_. Bloody _templars_.

“Outside of the wilds, she’s an apostate.” 

Flemeth chuckled and Morrigan glared. “If you did not wish help from us “illegal mages” lad, perhaps I should have left you on that tower.” 

Surana scratched her forehead in second hand embarrassment as Alistair cowed immediately with a, “Fair point.” 

“Mother,” Morrigan’s hands came up in front of her, adopting her mother’s habit of speaking more with them than with her mouth. “This is not how I wanted--I do not even know if I’m ready.” 

It sounded achingly familiar to Surana. She took a moment to be relieved that Cullen and Rupert and Irving were all still at the Circle. They were alive. The Circle would have endured heavy losses, all the Mages who were sent to Ostagar were almost certainly dead. But those Surana loved most, with the notable exception of Jowan, were safe. 

“You must be ready.” Flemeth’s eyes softened. “Alone these two must unite the land against the Blight. Without you, they will fail and all will perish. Even I.” 

“I…” Morrigan dropped her gaze. “I understand.” 

“Good. And you, Wardens. Do _you_ understand? I give you that which I value above all in this world.” Flemeth reached out and gently stroked Morrigan’s cheek. “I do this because you _must_ succeed.” 

“We’ll keep her safe,” Surana promised. “Er...within reason, I suppose. I don’t think any part of this is going to actually qualify as, well, _safe_.” She fidgeted with the end of her braid. “You, you know what I mean.” 

Morrigan huffed and crossed her arms. “Allow me to get my things, if you will.” 

She breezed into the cottage and Surana curled her hand back over Alistair’s forearm as the dark clouds settled over his mood once more. Alistair covered her hand with his own, and said nothing. 

They stood there for a moment, Flemeth watching them with owlish interest and Alistair staring at the ground. Morrigan re-emerged from the hut. She handed Surana her staff and pack and shot her mother a withering glare. “I am at your disposal, Grey Wardens,” Morrigan said, sharp gold eyes never leaving her mother. “I suggest a village to the north of here as our first destination. Tis not far and you can pick up much of what you need there. Or, if you prefer, I shall simply be your silent guide.” She turned her eyes to Surana, the glare leaving them enough that Surana didn’t feel the need to back away, wilt or challenge her. “The choice is yours.”

“I’d prefer you speak your mind,” Surana said. “You’re an equal member of this . . . operation? Venture?” 

“You will regret saying that,” Flemeth mused with a smile.

Reminded immediately that her mother existed, Morrigan’s temper flared up again. She turned to glower once more at her mother. “Dear, sweet mother. How _kind_ of you to cast me out like this. How _fondly_ I will remember this moment.” 

Flemeth shrugged one shoulder and swept Morrigan’s indignation away with a flick of her arthritic wrist. “Well, as they say. If you want something done right, do it yourself. Or hear about it for a decade or two, anyway.” 

“I just,” Alistair’s palms came up in one last ditch effort to talk Surana out of what had now become the plan. “Do you really want to take her along just because her _mother_ says so?” 

“No,” Surana shook her head. “I _welcome her assistance_ because we need _all the allies we can get._ ”

“I guess you’re right,” Alistair admitted. “The Grey Wardens have always taken allies where they could find them.” 

“I’m so _pleased_ to have your approval.” Morrigan snapped.

Surana gave Flemeth and almost pleading look, literally because Flemeth was neither Morrigan nor Alistair. They were going to be fun to travel with if they kept this up. 

“We should probably get underway. if we want to reach this village by dusk.” 

Morrigan nodded. “Farewell mother,” she tossed her head nonchalantly. “Do not forget the stew on the fire, I should hate to return to a burned down hut.” 

“Bah.” Flemeth spat. “Tis far more likely you’ll return to find this whole place, and my hut, swallowed up by the Blight.” 

Morrigan dropped her jaw and her shoulders in apology. “All I meant was--”

“Yes,” Flemeth smiled. “I know. Do try to have fun dear.” 

Surana hitched her pack further onto her shoulders and turned to face the statues that served as a gate for Flemth’s hut. 

“Now,” she said. “Which way is North?” 

Both Morrigan and Alistair pointed. 

“Thank you.”


	2. If You Give A Mabari A Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Stanton, Surana's noble Mabari war beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever just thing about how BIG Mabari are? They're HUGE.

They made it out of the Wilds by mid-afternoon. On the whole they were a sullen trio. Morrigan fumed silently as they passed the edge of the marsh and the highway evened out and Alistair . . . 

Surana left Alistair alone. His attention was on his feet for the most part and she felt it best to leave him to his grief. She wondered how long he’d been with the Wardens and how long he’d known Duncan before that. They had seemed close, almost familial. If Duncan hadn’t been fairly obviously Rivani, Surana would have mistaken them for father and son. 

She bit down on the inside of her cheek as she trudged, weight leaning on her staff to lighten the load on her aching feet. Did Duncan have family outside the Wardens? What about the other wardens? Not that she’d met any. Surana fiddled with the pendant around her neck. The cord was good, thick leather, the metal was cool against her fingers.

“Shall we pause for lunch?” Surana asked after another hour of uncomfortable silence. Morrigan looked over at her and shrugged with indifference. “Alistair?” 

“Hmm?” He looked up when addressed and Surana noted the wetness around the corners of his eyes. “Sure.” 

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it was fine to cry, that she’d seen many men cry and that there was nothing shameful with it, but one glance and Morrigan and she knew that there would be _more_ animosity between them if Alistair did. 

“Up to me then?” Surana asked. There was more vague nodding and she walked a little ways off the path, plopped down on a rock, and pulled a half ration from her pack. She split it into thirds and offered a piece to each of her companions. “It’s not a proper lunch, I suppose. More of a brief break? My feet are aching.” 

Alistair stared at his food and took the smallest bite. 

Morrigan snorted in disdain at him before fixing her yellow eyes on Surana. “I have a wonder, Neria.”

“Mm?” 

“How did you come to join the Grey Wardens?” 

The question was more of a blow that Surana had been prepared for. She looked down at her food and chewed on her lower lip. “It’s . . . a long story,” she settled on at last. “There was a problem with a friend of mine and Greagoir, er, that’s the Knight-Commander, probably would have locked me in solitary if I’d stayed.” Surana picked at the bread, crumbs sticking to her fingers. “Duncan was there and suggested that I would make a fine Warden.” 

“So you were coerced?” 

“Not exactly. I would have leapt at the chance, honestly. I hadn’t been off that island since I was seven. A chance to see the world was . . . everything.” 

“Were you not terrified? A small rabbit loosed from its hutch to be set amongst wolves?” 

What a strange thing to say. Surana made a bit of a face. “I . . . yes? But terror is . . . new. I’d rather be terrified than complacent, I suppose.” She wondered if Morrigan was asking in some attempt to alleviate her own concerns about leaving the Wilds. “I’m proud to be here though, not that I guess that matters, proud or not _someone_ needs to do something.” 

Morrigan made a noncommittal noise at that, seemingly mulling what Surana had said over in her head.

* * *

Another hour and Alistair stopped them. He frowned and gestured up the road with his chin. “Can you feel them?” 

Surana furrowed her brow. “Can I feel wh--” she cut herself off and _listened_ , not with her ears but with something inside her. The faint growling from the tower. She changed her grip on her staff and dropped into a fighting stance. “Darkspawn.” 

The word left her lips and was answered with a sharp bark down the road. A dog, not a darkspawn, crested the small hill, running towards her at full tilt. Surana started to straighten, confused, when she saw the hurlock charging after it. 

The dog barked, at Surana, turned, and lunged, front paws on the hurlock’s chest to bear it to the ground. 

“Son of a--” Surana shot a bolt of ice at the downed hurlock as Alistair rushed to engage. Beside her, Morrigan focused her energy and . . . became a spider. 

Surana bit back a scream and turned her attention back to the darkspawn. 

Two mages (er . . . one mage, one giant _bloody spider_ ), a trained templar and a mabari warhound proved more than a match for the small band of roving nightmares and it wasn’t long before the skirmish ended. 

The dog plodded happily over to her, the small stub of his tail wagging happily. He stretched, almost a bow, in front of her and tilted his head for approval. 

“I . . . aren’t you the dog from Ostagar?” 

“You’re not _talking_ to this mongrel, are you?” Morrigan asked. 

Surana ignored her and knelt down so she was almost level with the dog. He came up and stuck his head under her hands, demanding, rather effectively, to have his ears scratched. 

“I think he was out here looking for you,” Alistair said. The violence seemed to have refocused his attentions back on the present. It was a welcome change from the silence. “He’s . . . chosen you. Mabari are like that. They call it imprinting.” 

“Does this mean we’re going to have this mangy creature following us around now?” Morrigan crossed her arms and muttered, “Wonderful,” with textbook sarcasm. 

“He’s not mangy,” Alistair said in a sing-song voice. The dog turned his attention up to Alistair and wagged his butt more vigorously before barking in approval. 

“I think it must be meant to be.” Surana chuckled. She stood up and found that her hand could quite comfortably rest on the mabari’s head while standing. His shoulders came to the bottom of her rib cage, head to the middle of her chest. “If you were any larger,” she mused, “I could ride you into combat.” 

The dog panted happily and ran his head into her leg. 

“He’ll need a name,” Alistair volunteered. 

“Stanton?” Surana asked the dog. It was a good name, a staunchly Ferelden name that she’d always liked. Or at least, that she’d liked since she was seventeen and Cullen had introduced himself. It was silly, she realized, naming her dog after a man she would never see again, but it was the little things that would keep the tower close. It had been her home, after all. And _Irving_ was a very old man name, _Rupert_ was stuffy and _Jowan_ . . . well . . . Jowan hurt. 

The dog, now Stanton, wiggled his butt playfully and gave an affirmative bark. 

“Stanton it is then.”


	3. Lothering? More Like Loitering Am I Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew runs some errands in the small village of Lothering and learns a little more than they knew on the road.

It was almost sunset when Surana spotted the village she assumed to be Lothering. She was tired, and her feet hurt and she was therefore in no mood for the weaselly voice that came attached to an untrustworthy looking man immediately going to block her path into the village. 

“Wake up gents,” he called out. From amidst the knocked over carts and scattered wooden boxes a half dozen armed men appeared in varying levels of cheer and consciousness. “More travelers. Lead by an _elf_ of all things. My, my.” 

“Uh. Boss. They don’t look much like the others, maybe we should let them through,” said a thick voiced man to the leader’s right. He clearly thought he was whispering. He was not. 

“Nonsense. It’s a _toll_. Everyone has to pay.” 

“Bandits,” Alistair growled in a low voice, “praying on the refugees.” 

“They are fools to get in our way,” Morrigan sighed. “I say teach them a lesson.” 

Stanton growled, the sound rumbling up through Surana’s leg where he was leaning. She looked down at him and set her free hand on his head, fingers gliding lightly over his triangular ears. 

“Now, is that anyway to greet someone?” The weaselly leader asked. He clicked his tongue and shook his head at their appalling manners. “A simple ten silver and you’re free to move on.” 

Surana crossed her arms over her chest, staff resting in the crook of one elbow. “Toll collectors?” She raised an eyebrow. 

“Indeed! For the upkeep of the Imperial Highway.” The man jerked a thumb behind him to indicate the broken bridge behind him and the toppled carts his men had been hiding behind. “It’s a bit of a mess isn’t it.” 

“Mmmhm. And yet somehow I don’t believe you.” 

“Nothing gets past you.” The leader praised. 

“I’s not _really_ a toll,” the thick voiced man to his side said. “We’re just robbing you.” 

Morrigan and Alistair both snorted. At least they could agree on _something_. 

“Do shut up,” the leader turned to look at his colleague. “Even a genlock would have understood that.” 

“You . . . realize I’m not going to pay you, right?” Surana curled her right hand around the shaft of her staff but didn’t quite uncross her arms yet. 

“Well I’m very sorry to hear that then. We have rules, you know.” 

“We get to ransack your corpse. Those are the rules.” The thick one nodded to himself as though pleased. 

“You can try.” Surana threw her left arm forward and a frosty wind burst from her palm to free the three men in front of her. Stanton and Alistair charged forward from either side, teeth and steel and fur and wood slamming into the would-be bandits like a hurricane. 

The leader began to unthaw, but only enough for his fingers to reach for his knife when Alistair’s shield connected with the back of his head and knocked him forward to his knees. “All right! All right!” He pleaded. “We surrender!” 

Surana lowered her staff. 

“We--we--we’re just trying to get by before the Darkspawn get us all!” 

“ _Get by?_ ” The adrenaline thundering through her veins made Surana’s voice tight and higher than usual. “You’re preying on people!” 

“Yes! I admit it! I Apologize!” 

“You--cheeky--fuck--argh!” Surana growled in frustration. “I’m turning you in to the authorities.” 

“There aren’t any! Just the templars.” 

Surana’s stomach lurched uncomfortably. _More bloody Templars_. 

“And they’ll execute me!” 

Surana pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled through her nostrils. “Yes, and?” She was usually much more merciful, but aching and annoyed and having almost been stabbed, Surana found she was running a little low on sympathy for the actively malicious. 

“I’m not going down without a fight!” The man started to lunge and Surana started to move backwards and then his head went flying. It smacked, almost comically, into one of the bridge’s columns and Alistair lowered his sword. 

“Are you alright?” 

“I . . . yes. Fine. Thank you.” 

“Should have just gone to the Templars. Stupid blighter.” 

“You’re not. . . wrong.” Surana stared at the headless body and then turned to look at the rest of the bandits. “Run.” She advised. 

They ran. 

Surana moped the sweat from her brow, leaned her staff against her shoulder and tightened the ribbon in her hair. Down the ramp lay Lothering, much as she remembered it after passing through with Duncan, only busier. Sadder. 

More people living in tents at the outskirts. 

“Lothering, pretty as a painting.” Alistair gestured ahead of them, shaking his head. 

“Ah, finally decided to rejoin us, have you?” Morrigan raised an eyebrow at Alistair, her mouth coiled into a smirk like a venomous snake. “Falling on your sword seemed too much effort, I take it?” 

“Is my being upset really so hard to understand?” Alistair snapped. “Have you _ever_ lost someone important to you? What if your mother died?” 

Surana remembered the way Morrigan’s face had fallen at the implication that Flemeth might do just that and she opened her mouth to call Alistair on the low blow when Morrigan, still smiling, retorted with, “Before or after I stopped laughing?” 

“Right, very creepy. Forget I asked.” 

“I shall certainly try.” 

Alistair shook his head and turned his attention to Surana. She let go of her braid and offered him as warm a smile as she could manage because if anyone needed a smile, it was probably Alistair. 

“What’s on your mind, Alistair?” 

“His navel, I suspect,” Morrigan purred, “he certainly has been contemplating it long enough.” 

Surana opened her mouth. 

“Right, is this the part where we’re shocked to discover you’ve never had a friend in your entire life.”

Surana closed her mouth and rubbed Stanton’s ears. Apparently Alistair and Morrigan had this.

“ _I_ can be friendly when I desire to. Alas,” she gave a mock frown, “desiring to be more _intelligent_ does not make it so.” 

“ _Anyway,” Alistair turned his attention and his torso away from Morrigan. “I thought we should talk about where we intend to go first.”_

“You have thoughts on that, I take it?” 

“This should be good.” Morrigan crossed her arms and rocked her weight back, certain Alistair would make a fool of himself. 

“I think,” he shot Morrigan a glare, “what Flemeth suggested is the best idea. Those treaties have you looked at them yet?” 

Surana shook her head, but didn’t voice that they had been walking _literally_ since leaving Flemeth’s hut. Morrigan didn’t need more ammunition. 

“There are three main groups we have treaties for,” Alistair explained, “the Dalish elves, the dwarves of Orzammar and the Circle of Magi. I also still think Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first.” 

Surana nodded and turned to Morrigan. “Morrigan? What do you think?” 

“Go after this man Loghain directly.” Morrigan suggested. “Kill him and then this business with the treaties can be conducted in safety.” 

“ _Right_ ,” Alistair rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in mimicry of Morrigan’s usual posture. “Because he certainly wouldn’t see that coming. Not like he has an army and experience and--”

“I was asked for my opinion and I gave it.” Morrigan interrupted, eyes flashing. “If _your_ wish is to come up with reasons why something cannot be done we will stand here until the darkspawn are upon us.” 

Surana considered smashing their heads together. She rubbed her temples with her index finger and thumb to ward off the headache a days march with bickering companions had brought on and then lifted her head again. “Why are you leaving it up to me?” 

“Well I don’t know where to go. I’ll do whatever you decide.” 

“Now that is unsurprising.” Morrigan muttered. 

Alistair uncrossed his arms and looked lost for a moment. “Arl Eamon is a good man, but I don’t know for sure he’s where we should go. I’m not going to fight about it.” 

“I’m not trying to fight with you,” Surana assured him. “I’m just . . . give me some time to think about it. We need to resupply anyway.” 

“Fair enough.”

* * *

Halfway to the chantry, Surana spotted an argument. She would have continued past it, but it wasn’t everyday she watched a grown man (or anyone really) shove a chantry sister. 

“It’s so nice to see everyone working together in a crisis.” Alistair said with mock joviality. “Really warms the heart.” 

“Ho! You There! You look able!” The man who had done the shoving turned and addressed Alistair. “Would you care to make a tiny profit helping a beleaguered business man?” 

“Is your profiteering ruffling some feathers?” Surana asked, leaning her weight on her staff and wearing an overly dramatized sympathetic smile. 

“You could. . .say that. Yes.” His eyes slid almost unwillingly to her, clearly unused to being addressed by an elvhen woman as an equal. 

“The nerve of these people.” Alistair added. 

The chantry sister, an older woman with the voice of a rabid shrew, pointed to the merchant as though he was a bullying child. “He is charging outlandish prices for things people desperately need! Their blood is filling his pockets.” 

“Tis only survival of the fittest.” Morrigan replied. “Any of these cretins would to the same in his shoes.” 

“Enough.” The merchant threw his hands out to stop the conversation. “Look, stranger.” He looked back to Alistair. “I’ve a hundred silvers if you’ll drive this rabble off, starting with the sister. I’m an honest merchant, nothing more.” 

“Don’t you think you’re being unscrupulous?” Surana asked. 

Morrigan dropped her face into her palm and sighed heavily. 

“Maybe? Would it help these people if they could buy no goods at all?” 

“They spend their last coin because they’re desperate and this man preys on them as surely as the bandits outside the city!” 

“Bah! I’m not arguing anymore. Drive this woman off and get your hundred silvers. Otherwise I’m taking my wagon and leaving.” 

“Really? I’m certain you could compromise and still make a decent profit.” Surana volunteered. 

Morrigan sighed more deeply. 

“Maybe. As long as that woman agrees I’m allowed to charge _something_ ”

The sister gave a tired sigh. “Do what you must, just make sure your prices don’t begger the needy.” 

“Fine. Fine. Done.” The merchant sent a withering glare at Surana and then at Alistair. “And since _you_ don’t look to needy normal prices for you.” 

“So we’ve come to solve every problem in the village personally.” Morrigan raised her head and gave Surana an icy smile. “My, but the darkspawn will be impressed.” 

“I don’t even know how I got dragged into that!” Surana tried to defend herself. “ _Or_ why he kept looking at Alistair.” 

Alistair shifted his weight uncomfortably. “ _Probably_ because you’re an elf?” 

“Doubtless, that cretin assumed you to be Alistair’s servant. My, but wouldn’t that be a change.” 

Surana tilted her head up to the sky. “Maker, I’m never going to get used to being out here. Let’s just . . . get our supplies and see what we can learn in the Chantry.”

* * *

“Why are we looking at the chanter’s board?” Morrigan asked with dripping disdain. 

Surana sighed as she made note of a job clearing bandits out of the fields that she was certain they could handle. “Because we need the money,” she muttered. 

“And _why_ is that? I wonder.” 

“Because I pissed off that merchant and I’m pretty sure he charged us more than his already over priced “normal”.” 

“Exactly.”

“I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing, could I?” Surana turned and noticed that Alistair was missing. She looked around and spotted him standing near a twisted, gnarled bush with his back to her and Morrigan. 

Probably pissing. He should have said something rather than just wandering off, but perhaps he was trying to be polite. He certainly seemed the type to worry about saying “piss” in front of a woman. 

Ridiculous, but strangely endearing. He was going to have to get over it if they were going to be walking together. People had to pee and it was important to know where everyone was at any given moment. 

Surana turned back to Morrigan to better preserve Alistair’s modesty. “I’m going to head into the Chantry and see if there’s any assistance the Revered Mother can offer us. Would you like to come with or would you rather find the inn?” 

“I shall stay with you. Tis better than wandering about this squalor on my own. Lest some templar take undo interest.” 

“Yeah. On second thought we should _definitely_ stay together.” Surana shifted her weight uncomfortably and curled her hand to a fist ontop of Stanton’s head. He whined and moved to lick her fingers. The gesture was . . . sticky and strangely comforting. 

“You dislike the templars? Tis not surprising, I suppose.” 

“I don’t--” Surana cut herself off before the automatic lie toppled out of her mouth. “It’s not that I _dislike_ them so much as, look, you know and I know that I’m not an apostate. Your average templar, however? He’s going to look at my staff and my robes and he’s going to just . . . assume.” 

“Is there some problem with being an _apostate_ , Neria?” Morrigan asked. It felt like a trap. She had one eyebrow lifted and her maroon lips pursed in bemusement that could become offense if she dropped one corner. 

“Depends on who you ask, I suppose.” 

“I believe I was asking you.” 

“It doesn’t bother me. You’re clearly not a blood mage and, honestly, life in the circle had its . . .” Surana thought of Fennik, leaping from the tower window, and of Breckan calling her knife-ear and bullying her when she wouldn’t give in, “. . .downsides. I think the Circle is a necessary precaution, but I can’t blame people for wanting to live outside of those restraints.”

“How diplomatic of you.” 

Surana shrugged and gave Stanton’s ear a scratch as the sound of armor heralded Alistair’s return. “Feeling better?” she asked, tilting her face towards his. “I’m going to go to the Chantry, see if the Revered Mother can tell us anything. Then I think we should look into clearing out these bandits,” she indicated the job board, “we’ll need the coin and the townsfolk could use fewer problems, what with the darkspawn horde approaching.”

* * *

“There have been news of Darkspawn approaching, but no sign of the main horde. Keep the watch up, these people are desperate and we will not abandon them. That is all, Maker watch over us.” The words boomed through the chantry, though it was obvious that the speaker, easily identified as Lothering’s Knight-Commander, hadn’t intended them too.

Surana steeled herself, and made her way over. 

“Yes, my lady? And who might you be?” The Knight-Commander had a pleasant, if worn and tired brown face trying very hard to appear comforting. 

Surana rested her hand on Stanton’s head. “I’m Neria, of the Grey Wardens,” she answered, hoping that the name of the order would be enough to keep his eyes from fixing on her staff and his hand from going to his sword hilt. 

“I . . . see.” 

The pause was _not_ comforting. 

“I am Ser Byrant, commander of Lothering’s templars. Teyrn Loghain declared all Grey Wardens traitors, responsible for the king’s death. You know this, I hope.” 

Surana’s eyes went wide and her jaw fell open. She tensed her hand on Stanton’s head and he growled softly. “He. . .he said _we’re_ responsible?” She managed through the bile rising up in her throat, praying she’d _grossly_ misheard that. 

Alistair’s gauntleted hand curled around her wrist. 

“And offered a bounty on any who survived,” Ser Byrant confirmed. “I do not believe the Grey Wardens would be as careless or malicious as the Teyrn claims, but, there you have it.” He shrugged apologetically. “It is best you do not linger, though. Just . . . in case.” 

Surana was too taken aback to speak for a moment. Her mouth moved, forming soundless questions. How? Why? She squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed, forcing the bile and the misery and the indignation down. It could fester contained for a while. She would address it when she had time. “Is there any help you can offer?” 

“I cannot help you openly, I fear.” Ser Byrant’s bad attempt at an apologetic smile fell short and he furrowed his brow. “But . . . here.” He reached into a pocket and produced a small, silver key. “Take this. It opens the large cabinet back there,” he gestured with his thumb to the back of the chantry. “There is more there than we can carry when we evacuate so take what you need.” 

“Thank you.” Neria took the offered key and squeezed it in her palm. “Things seem very dire here.” 

“They are. With the Bann having taken his men north, this village is left to it’s fate.” Ser Byrant dropped his eyes to the ground for a moment. He was not like the templars she dealt with in the Circle, always on guard, surrounded daily by mages. Ser Byrant seemed a gentler sort, unused to having true crises dropped on his broad shoulders. He squared up and lifted his chin. “We will evacuate as many as possible when the time comes. I will stay here as long as I am needed. Now, unless there’s something else you needed, I should get back to my duties.” 

Surana shook her head. “No, thank you.” 

She made her way towards the back of the chapel and found the cabinet. The key fit easily in the hole and Surana helped herself to some potions and a few regents, little things to make what came next easier. 

“Do you ever wonder if that’s an accurate likeness of Andraste?” Alistair asked. Surana looked up and followed his gaze to the statue, beautiful Andraste holding her bowl of flames. “Maybe she was ugly? Maybe she had buck teeth, how would we know?”

“I guess we wouldn’t.” Surana shrugged. “She’s supposed to be a symbol, maybe she’s beautiful because we need the Maker’s love to be beautiful.” 

“Fools.” Morrigan snorted, arms crossed over her chest. “Andrastians worship a prophet they _burned_ in hopes that she will intercede on the behalf of a god who abandoned them, not once, but _twice_.”

“ _Techinically_ Tevinter burned her.” Alistair volunteered. 

“Less heresy in the Chantry, friends.” Surana whispered where only Morrigan and Alistair would hear her. “We _really_ don’t need the extra scrutiny.” 

On their way out of the Chantry, Surana almost tripped as Alistair stopped walking abruptly. He tilted his head, reminiscent of Stanton, and furrowed his brow as though trying to place something before announcing, “Ser Donall? Is that you?”

“Wh--Alistair?” The knight, Ser Donall, who turned was a few years older than either Surana or Alistair. His eyes brightened when they alighted on Alistair’s face and he brought his hands up in a joyous greeting. “By the Maker! I thought you were dead for sure!” 

“Wh--”

“I’m not, no thanks to Teyrn Loghain,” Alistair spat the name like a swear word, effectively cutting off Surana’s question about who this man was. 

Ser Donall slumped and shook his head. “If Arl Eamon were well, he’d set the Teryn straight I’m sure but--”

“Wait, what do you mean _if he were well_?” Alistair took a step forward, concern and panic darkening his face. 

“The Arl’s become gravely ill,” Donall explained, “no one is sure how, but each day his symptoms worsen. At this point, only a miracle will save him.”

“Surely magic--” Surana started to offer, but Donall cut her off with a sad shake of his head. 

“It’s been tried. Now every night in Redcliffe is off chasing a fable. Andraste’s ashes are said to cure any illness, but I fear . . .” he sighed, “with every day my hope dims.” 

“We were hoping to speak with Arl Eamon, actually.” Surana shifted her weight uncomfortably. 

“Why is that, if I may ask?” Donall’s attention turned from Alistair to her more fully. 

“We need his help against Teryn Loghain,” Surana dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. 

“I see,” Donall sighed. “The Arl is a popular man, it’s true, but Teyrn Loghain is a hero throughout Ferelden.” 

“Some hero,” Morrigan scoffed, earning her an irritated look from Ser Donall. 

“Whatever the Teyrn has or has not done, the arl remains ill, or worse. That must be my primary concern.” 

Surana nodded her understanding. 

“We need to see what’s happening at Redcliffe for ourselves,” Alistair said. “I believe that now more than ever.” 

“If nothing else I’m sure you would be welcomed at Castle Redcliffe.” Ser Donall insisted, determined to brighten Alistair’s disposition, “The. . . well the Arlessa is there. She could tell you more than I can.” 

“Thank you.” Surana nodded. “We will.” 

“Take care, Ser Donall.” Alistair extended a hand and had it shaken in return.

“Try to stay alive.” 

“You two knew each other?” Surana asked as they made their way back out of the Chantry. 

Alistair shrugged one shoulder. “Only a little. We were both boys in Redcliffe at the same time. I heard he became a knight after I was sent away to the templars. Haven’t seen him in almost ten years.” 

“Ah.”


	4. Making Friends, Mending Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The introduction of Sten, Leliana, Bodhan and Sandal as Surana finally leaves Lothering.

They roamed the village in relative quiet, heading for the outskirts and the bandits that the chanter’s board had mentioned. Surana at the front with Stanton, trying to look as not mage and as not warden as possible, in light of the information they’d just been given. 

“So let's talk about your mother, for a moment,” Alistair said. Surana turned her head, brow wrinkling in confusion because she would have thought that an _ex-templar_ would have known better than to ask a circle mage about her mother. 

But he was, instead, looking at Morrigan, who wasted no time in quipping, “I’d rather talk about _your_ mother.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Alistair replied. “And besides, isn’t _your_ mother a scary witch who lives in the middle of a forest.” 

“Maker, you two, again?” Surana muttered, too quiet for either of them to be listening. She looked down at Stanton. Stanton’s tongue lolled out of his mouth and he tilted his head with an interested whine. “They do this.” 

“To you perhaps,” Morrigan half-shrugged one disinterested shoulder. “ _You_ would find the moss growing upon a stone interesting.” 

Surana rolled her eyes and patted her leg for Stanton to follow. She was certain there was an inn around here somewhere, they could get more supplies and maybe more information about the local situation. 

“You know what’s more interesting than that? Apostates. Mages outside of the Tower. That’s _illegal,_ you know.” 

“Alistair, dro--”

“You did not read that in a book somewhere, did you?” Morrigan batted her eyes sweetly. “I hope the small letters did not strain you overmuch.” 

“Are they going to be like this the _entire_ time?” Surana asked Stanton, who answered in what she was beginning to assume was his usual fashion (a small whine and smacking her leg affectionately with his head).

“Or we could not talk about your mother.” Alistair relented. “That works for me.” 

Surana walked right past the inn when she heard another voice, deep and earthy, chanting in a language she had never heard before. 

“Neria,” Morrigan called out behind her, “have your eyes gone as--ah.” 

Surana followed the rhythmic chanting to a cage on the outside of town and stared in wonder at the very first Qunari she’d seen in the flesh. He was huge, a full head and shoulders taller than Alistair, with a shock of braided white hair and and hooked nose. She had expected horns. Didn’t Qunari usually have horns? 

“You are not one of my captors.” The Qunari’s eyes opened and Surana stiffened, embarrassed to be caught staring. “I have nothing to say that would amuse you _elf_. Leave me in peace.” 

“You’re a prisoner?” Surana bit down on the inside of her cheek as the words left her mouth and made her seem like a simpleton. _Of course_ he was a prisoner. He was in a bloody cage. He’d referred to “captors”. So much for first impressions. “Who put you in here?” 

“I am in a cage, am I not?” 

Surana winced. First impressions. Bang up job, that. She looked over her shoulder briefly as Morrigan and Alistair left the shadow of the tavern to investigate what was distracting her. 

“I have been placed here by the chantry. I am Sten of the Beresaad --the vanguard-- of the Qunari people.” 

“I’m Neria Surana, pleased to meet you.” She replied, placing a hand on her chest and giving a polite nod, determined to make up for sounding like an idiot by at least sounding like a _polite_ idiot. 

“You . . . mock me?” Sten raised a confused eyebrow. “Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. Either way, it matters little. I will be dead soon.” 

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Alistair was looking up at Sten, clearly unused to being one of the “short” people. “But the Qunari are renowned warriors. If . . . we could find a way to _release_ him, maybe he would help us?” 

“This is a proud and noble creature, trapped as bait for the darkspawn.” Morrigan gestured to Sten, as though completely oblivious to the fact that referring to someone else as a _creature_ was rude. “If you can not see a use for him I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.” 

Surana smiled in agreement. 

“Mercy?” Alistair turned to Morrigan in genuine surprise. “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.” 

“I would _also_ ,” Morrigan crossed her arms and refused to even _look_ at Alistair, “suggest Alistair take his place in the cage.” 

“Right, that’s what I would have expected.” 

Surana rolled her eyes to the heavens, sighed, and turned her attention back to Sten who was _not_ a small child. “I . . .do find myself in need of skilled help, actually.” 

“No doubt.” Sten looked from the bickering pair behind her and focused his eyes on Surana once more. “I’m a Grey Warden, sworn to defend the land against the Blight.” 

“Surprising.” 

“Uh . . . what is?” 

“My people have heard legends of the Grey Warden’s strength and skill . . . though I suppose not every legend is true.” 

Surana frowned, fairly certain that she was being insulted, but Sten had maintained an unwavering, matter-of-fact tone, as though he was commenting on nothing more severe or interesting than the fact that the sun was out. Not even hot. Just . . . present. 

“Would the revered mother let you free?” 

“Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems a likely to bring my death as waiting here.” 

“I’ll . . . do that then.” 

“Farewell, then.” 

Surana turned to head back to town, patting her leg to draw Stanton’s attention from the Qunari back to herself as she walked. He barked and trotted over, brusquely pushing between Alistair and Morrigan to shove his head back under Surana’s palm. 

“Left to be eaten alive by darkspawn,” Alistair muttered, shaking his head. “I wonder why the revered mother is so afraid of him.” 

“Tis a fine example of the Chantry’s mercy, is it not?” Morrigan added. “A penitent man left in a cage to be torn apart.” 

“You two actually agree on something,” Surana couldn’t help but chuckle, “after the last day or two, I think I might die of shock.”

* * *

Surana donated a tithe to the chantry while Morrigan shook her head and then asked the Revered Mother about Sten. There was a little bit of back and forth in which the Revered Mother told them that Sten had murdered a family and she had decided to leave his fate in the maker’s hands. 

Eventually, Surana offered to conscript him. The Revered mother gave her a worried look and commented that they should leave before trouble followed them to Lothering (as though Loghain’s ire were more troubling than the blasted blight) but she handed over the key. 

Sten had resumed chanting in his cage. Surana waited patiently, rocking her weight from her left foot to her right foot until Morrigan cleared her throat and _that_ got Sten’s attention. 

“Ah. You wish something more of me?” 

“I have the key.” Surana held it up where he could see. 

“I confess, I did not think the priestess would part with it.” 

“She agreed to release you into my custody.” 

“So be it.” Sten drew himself to his full and frankly impressive height. He hadn’t been slouching, exactly, but he made himself taller the way templar recruits could in front of their Knight-Commander. “Set me free, and I will follow you against the Blight.” 

“Great!” Surana beamed. She unlocked the cage door and Sten stepped out. 

“I will follow you into battle, and in doing so I will find my atonement.” 

“Thank you, Sten.” She commented, still a little star struck at how _big_ he was. “I look forward to traveling with you.” 

Sten’s expression changed from icy neutral to neutral bewildered.There wasn’t _much_ of a difference. “May we proceed, I am eager to be elsewhere.”

* * *

The bandits were dispatched with haste and with surprising ease. Surana mopped a little bit of sweat from her brow and brushed her red bangs out of her eyes. “Quick stop in at the tavern before we return to the Chanter’s board, get paid and get out?” 

There was a collective murmur of agreement and a small grunt from Sten. 

“Great.” 

Dane’s Refuge was a brown, non-descript building (like most of the buildings in Lothering) with a thatched room and the smell of the privy behind it leaking into the air. Probably, in less desperate times, it had been the jewel of the town, as much a meeting place as the Chantry, and with ale. 

Surana pushed open the door. 

“Well, what have we here men, I think we’ve just been blessed.” A swarthy man pushed up from his table, knocking his mug aside as he did. He was wearing armor and flanked by another man in the same uniform. 

“Didn’t we spend all afternoon asking about an elf of this very description,” the second soldier said, “and everyone said they hadn’t seen her.” 

“ _Shit,_ ” Surana hissed, tightening her grip on her staff, the hand on Stanton’s head sliding back to his neck as though she was reaching for a collar that wasn’t there (he would need a collar). 

“Loghain’s men,” Alistair confirmed quietly beside her, reaching back for his shield. “This can’t be good.” 

“Seems we were lied to.” The first soldier scoffed. He stopped about a swords length in front of Surana. 

“Gentlemen!” A sweet voice, light with an Orlesian accent, interrupted the tension. “Surely these are simply more refugees here to seek shelter from the coming blight.” A chantry sister, her orange hair shorn short and her long elegant fingers clasped in front of her, took a step between Surana and the soldier. 

“There’s more than that.” The soldier growled. He shoved the sister out of the way, whirling on her with the full brunt of his angry. “Stay out of our way, Sister. You protect these traitors, you’ll get the same as them.” 

Surana’s hand came up to brace the sister’s shoulders as she was shoved. 

“What makes you think we’re traitors?” Surana asked, still trying to feign ignorance in the hope that they could escape this whole debacle without getting anyone killed (or arrested for apostasy). 

“Teryn Loghain has declared all the Grey Warden’s traitors,” the sister offered helpfully. Surana briefly considered dropping her. “Or haven’t you heard.” 

“Enough talk!” Roared the solider. More appeared, their attention drawn to the commotion. “Take the Wardens into custody, kill the sister and anyone else who gets in your way.” 

Surana shoved the sister to the side, out of the way of a sword’s swing. The tip of the blade grazed her arm and Surana answered it with a small blast of lightning. She ducked and to her surprise the Sister came up with a knife and buried it in a man’s neck. 

“What the--” The startled question was stifled as Alistair jerked Surana out of the way of a shield and answered the attack with one of his own. 

Fighting first, questions after. 

She focused, blocking a sword with her staff and then clocker her assailant in the face with the end of it while her other hand fired a bolt of petrifying energy at the commander. He went still long enough for Alistair, Sten, Morrigan and Stanton to deal with the rest of his men. 

Surana pulled a knife and held it to his throat as the spell wore off. He looked down at the blade and then past it to her face and swallowed. “Alright, you’ve won. I . . . I surrender.” 

“Good.” The sister wiped blood onto her chantry robe, crimson staining the gold to a deep red. “They’ve learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now.” 

“The wardens did _not_ betray King Cailan!” Surana shouted, her chest heaving with adrenaline and the hand on the knife starting to shake. “Loghain did!” 

“I was _there_ the commander spat. The Teyrn pulled us out of a trap!” 

“He left the King to die!” 

“The Wardens led the king to his death! The Teyrn could do nothing.”

Surana’s grip on the blade tightened, her arm tensed to stop the shakes. The tip of her dagger touched the man’s neck, blood starting to pool where it bit shallowly into the skin. 

“You really are bl--”

The sister put her hand on Surana’s wrist and shook her head, imploring silently. Surana exhaled, she lowered the knife. “Take a message to Loghain.”

“What do you want me to tell him?” 

“Tell him,” Surana considered for a moment. “Tell him the Grey Wardens know what really happened. He will pay for his treason.”

The soldier scarpered out the door, clearly terrified that Surana would think better of letting him live. Surana dropped her knife and exhaled a shaky breath. She had almost killed someone. Well, she’d killed a lot of people in the last few days, some bandits, a lot of darkspawn (not that they were people) but those had been . . . different. Distant. 

She’d had a knife in her hands. He’d been functionally helpless. 

“I apologize for interfering.” The chantry sister’s voice had maintained its smile. Surana looked up and noticed that the young woman’s face was _also_ smiling. “But I couldn’t just sit by and not help.” 

“I appreciate it,” Surana said, still feeling a little numb. 

“I’m glad you found it in your heart to show that man mercy.” 

_Mercy, right._ Surana let her arm drop uselessly at her side where Stanton offered comfort by licking her fingers. 

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering.” Leliana’s mouth twisted almost mischievously, “or I was.” 

“Neria. A pleasure.” Surana forced a brittle smile that only lasted a second. “This is Alistair, Morrigan, Sten, and Stanton.” 

“You are a Grey Warden, no? I’m surprised you’re an elf.” 

Surana started to bristle. 

“But then, elves must want the Blight defeated as badly as humans, no? I know after what happened you will need all the help you can get.” Leliana’s hands came together in front of her, invoking a childlike innocence that did not belong on a woman several years older than Surana who had just buried a knife in another man’s neck. “That’s why I’m coming with you.” 

“I. . . will need help, yes.” Surana agreed hesitantly. 

“That,” Leliana nodded her agreement, “and the Maker wants me to go with you.” 

“The Maker . . . what?” Surana blanched. “I . . . can you . . . uh . . .elaborate on that? Maybe?” 

“I--” Leliana hesistated and dropped her eyes, her hands, still clasped together, began to wring each other nervously. “I know that sounds insane, but I had a dream. A vision.” 

Which did not sound _less_ insane. 

“More crazy?” Alistair asked, “I thought we were all full up.” He glared at Morrigan. 

“Look around you, at the people here. They are swallowed in their despair. This darkness, this chaos --it will spread.” Leliana gave Surana a pleading look, some how managing to look _up_ at her despite being half a head taller. “The Maker doesn’t want that. What you do, what you are _meant_ to do, is the Maker’s work. Let me help!”

“Ah. . .I. . .” Surana faltered and floundered for a moment. “I . . . alright. We can’t exactly turn away help when it’s offered freely, after all.” 

“Perhaps her skull was cracked worse than Mother thought,” Morrigan mused. 

“We can investigate that _later_ , Morrigan.” Surana sighed. She wasn’t certain she disagreed. 

“Thank you for giving me this chance.” Leliana pressed a kiss to Surana’s temple, it felt Orlesian, the sort of thing Surana had read about. “I will _not_ let you down.” 

“Uh . . . yes. Well. . . wouldn’t want to . . . irk The Maker. I guess. You’re going to want. . . armor. Like Sten. Everyone needs armor. And I…” Surana pinched the bridge of her nose. “ _Really_ want a drink.” 

“That would be unwise.” Sten informed her, his voice as flat and matter-of-fact as it had been in the cage.

“Yes,” Surana slumped in defeat. “Yes it probably would.”

* * *

“Did you hear?” the whisper caught Surana’s attention but chance as she left the chanter’s board, bounties finished and coin jingling in her belt pouch. “Cousin of mine in the templars said all the mages in the tower have turned into demons.”  
“Psh. Someone’s always saying that.”  
“‘ts true this time, I heard. Said they’re still working out what to do about it.”  
“What’s to do? Kill ‘em.”  
“Bloody mages picked a fine time to turn into demons.” 

Surana hadn’t realized she had slowed to a molasses-y pace until Alistair’s hand alighted on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked. Surana nodded.

“Just, still getting used to being out in the world.” 

“I understand.” 

“People really are terrified of mages, aren’t they?” she asked, giving him an almost pleading look.

“And disdainful of elves.” Alistair added with an apologetic smile. 

“ _Joy_ ,” she groaned. 

“We’ll get by.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I promise.”

* * *

Surana stared at the bodies of the villagers who had attacked them. She knelt to heal what wounds she could on those who were just unconscious, Morrigan clicking her tongue in disdain and Sten muttering that they were wasting time. “I feel bad for them,” she defended. “They’re only desperate.” 

“They intended to kill us.” Sten argued. 

“They will likely die anyway.” Morrigan adjusted the neckline of her blouse. 

“It’s good of you to do this.” Leliana encouraged, shooting a pout at both of the dissenters. 

“I know.” Surana stood up. “But they’re right. We need to make camp before nightfall. I get the feeling we’re going to be less than welcome here once this is discovered and I . . . I would really rather not have my throat slit in my sleep.” 

They encountered darkspawn to the north of town and Surana had a sinking feelings as the last hurlock fell, twitching and decapitated in front of Alistair. “They need to get out.” She exhaled. “The horde isn’t coming from the south, that’s why the scouts hadn’t seen anything.” 

“We can’t stay.” Morrigan urged. “We must move on.” 

“She’s right.”

“I . . . I know.” Surana bit down on her lip. “Let’s get--” 

“Mighty timely arrival there, my friend, I’m much obliged.” 

Surana spun to see who had interrupted her and had to look _down_ , not a standard operation procedure from someone who was just over five-foot in height. She was being addressed by a pair of dwarves, one bearded and middle aged and the other clean shaven (odd, for a dwarf) who looked particularly boyish, with big eyes and bigger ears and a mop of curly blonde hair above them both. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Name’s Bodhan Feddic, Merchant and Entrepreneur. This here’s my son, Sandal. Say hello m’boy.” 

“Hello!” Sandal said, sounding pleased, if slightly more like an enthusiastic (which would have been impossible) tranquil. 

“Road’s been might dangerous these days,” Bodahn said, giving his son an adoring smile before turning his face back up to Neria’s. “Might if I ask what brings you out here? Perhaps we’re going the same way.” 

Surana looked from Bodhan to his son and shook her head. “I doubt you want to travel with a Grey Warden, the, uh, political situation being what it is.” 

“Grey Wardens,” Bodhan looked past Surana to the rest of the party. “My, but that does explain a few things. Ah, no offense, but I think there’ll be rather more excitement on your path than my boy and I can handle.” 

“Probably.” Surana shrugged. “No offense taken.”

“Allow me to bid you farewell, and good luck.” Bodhan gave a small, rather awkward bow and then turned to Sandal.

“Goodbye!” Sandal said with the same enthusiasm and emphasis that he had said “hello” with.”

“Right. Let’s get this mess cleaned up then, shall we.” 

Surana smiled at them both, then turned, shook her head, and started North on the King’s Highway.


	5. The Little Things No One Thought To Mention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party sets up camp for the first time. Surana talks with Sten, Leliana and Alistair about the past and has a nightmare detailing the horror that is her future.

They settled in a clearing near nightfall and set up a small camp. Surana noted with surprise that Bodhan and Sandal pulled up their cart and set up nearby. 

She made her way over to them, a curious smile painting her narrow face and waved back when Bodhan turned and gave her an enthusiastic wave. 

“Ah! Good to see you again my timely rescuer. Bodhan Feddic at your service once again. We saw your camp and thought, “what better place to be protected than a Grey Warden’s camp?” I’m perfectly willing to offer you a fine discount for the inconvenience of our presence. How does that sound? Good? Yes?” 

“Sure.” Surana shrugged her thin shoulders. “What are you selling?” 

“Any and everything,” Bodhan gestured with his thumb at his wagon. “But only of the highest quality. No cheap trinkets here! And my boy Sandal is quite the hand at enchantments.” 

“Enchantment!” Sandal added in his strangely enthusiastic manner. 

“Sadly, it makes us a target for bandits and the like. If there were spare hands to hire as guards I would have done so long ago.” 

“Makes sense,” Surana agreed. “You’re welcome to stay, just try and stay out of harm’s way.”

“Thank you,” Bodhan’s smile softened and widened, not the merchant’s grin he usually wore. “Thank the kind lady, won’t you boy?” He turned to Sandal. 

“Thank you, Kind Lady.” 

“Neria. Please.” She smiled back. 

“Neria then.” Bodhan turned to start unpacking some of his wares. “We won’t be a bother to you or to your companions. If you need some enchanting done, speak to my boy. Otherwise, come talk to me.” 

“Sounds like a good plan. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining us for dinner, Bodhan? Seeing as you’re already here.” 

“My, that does sound lovely. What do you think my boy? Dinner?”

“Dinner!”

* * *

“Do you want to talk about Duncan?” Surana asked, taking her bowl of grey (surprisingly grey, she was honestly surprised that it tasted alright) stew and settling down next to Alistair. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Alistair poked his stew with his spoon, dunking a piece of probably lamb (he’d said it was lamb) into the broth. “I know you didn’t know him as long as I did.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t mourn his loss,” Surana said. “He took me from the Tower and gave me a chance at having a real life. He stood up for me.”

“I . . .” Alistair’s spoon froze, drowning the piece of meat. “I should have handled it better. Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it. Not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and . . . everything.” 

Surana set her spoon in her bowl and reached out with her free hand, curling it lightly around his wrist before she pulled back and blew on her stew to cool it. “There’s no need to apologize, Alistair.” 

“I’d . . .like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once all this is done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.” 

“Nonsense,” Surana gave Alistair a warm smile, “he had you.” 

“I suppose he did.” Alistair let the hunk of meat resurface. Surana could almost imagine it gasping for air. “It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him, in the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.” 

“You didn’t,” she assured him, “but I understand the feeling completely.”

“Of course, I’d be dead then, wouldn’t I? Not like that would make him any happier.” 

“Wouldn’t have made me any happier either.” Surana pointed out, “I was so . . . relieved when Morrigan told me you were alive.” 

Alistair smiled at that, a small smile that barely warmed his cedar eyes, but it was something at least. “I was terrified while you were in that hut by yourself. I saw you get shot, you know. I thought . . . well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? I think Duncan came from Highever, that’s what he said, anyway. Maybe I’ll go there when this is all over. See about putting something up in his honor.” 

Surana nodded and fished what had once been a carrot out with her spoon. It was still grey, but it tasted like carrot. 

“Have you . . . had someone close to you die?” Alistair asked. “Not that I mean to pry, I’m just. . .” 

“Suicides,” Surana shrugged, trying to pass it off as nothing while her ears echoed with Fennik’s final scream. “Mostly. But we’re not . . . it’s not encouraged to form deep interpersonal connections in the Tower. Particularly not when you’re an apprentice.” 

Alistair exhaled and took a bite of his soup. He chewed, swallowed and looked better when he had. “Thank you, Neria. Really. I mean it. It was good to talk about this with . . . a friend. It means a lot to me.” 

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go to Highever with you, when you go.” 

“I’d like that. So would he, I think.” 

Surana had some more of her stew and fed the scraps to Stanton, who had polished off his bowl already and was whining for seconds because he was a dog and the size, in her mind at least, of a small pony.

* * *

“Stop looking at me, Mongrel!” Morrigan’s voice was high and sharp and Surana immediately looked over, expecting to see her snapping at Alistair. It was almost a relief to find that Morrigan was glaring at _Stanton_ who was _actually_ a dog. “I have nothing you want!” 

Stanton tilted his head and whined. 

“Why do you keep staring at me so, you flea-ridden beast? Can you not tell when you are not wanted?” 

“I don’t think he cares, Morrigan.” Surana said to herself, shaking her head and turning away to look for Sten, somewhere near the outskirts of the camp where he’d set up his small tent. 

“I enjoy the company of creatures of the _wild_. Not stench-ridden, domesticated wolved!” Morrigan’s shouting carried and was interrupted by a high whine. 

“And he persists! Maddening! Neria come collect your--”

“Stanton!” Surana called, she patted her leg, “To me!” 

Stanton gave one last whine to Morrigan and then trotted over. Surana gave his ears a scratch while she approached where Sten was stilling, running a whetstone over the edge of his blade. 

“Do you have a moment, Sten?” 

He grunted and didn’t bother to set the whetstone aside. However, he looked up at her, dark grey eyes meeting her own. He rolled his shoulders back and nodded. 

“I . . . wanted to talk to you.” Surana shifted her weight uncomfortably. Somehow, talking to Sten felt a lot like talking to Greagor had when she was very little. A huge, undauntable force that didn’t like her on principle. 

“There are darkspawn at our back. Would not we be better served preparing for them?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” Surana brought her hands up peaceably, “You were in that cage for weeks.” 

“You are . . . concerned?” The left corner of Sten’s mouth twitched as though he found that somehow comical. The expression didn’t last long. He set the whetstone aside, greatsword laid across his lap, the blade shiny and sharp. “No need. I am fit enough to fight.” 

“You said you were in the army?” Surana’s eyes dropped to the blade for a moment before jumping back up to Sten’s face. 

“I am.” 

“That was . . . straight forward.” Surana chuckled. “Why would the Qunari send soldiers to Ferelden?” She had read, of course, about the Qunari invasion, but it was functionally ancient history according to most scholars, though word of invasion wasn’t unheard of. Still, politically, to the best of Surana’s knowledge, Orlais to the East was the more _probable_ threat and _they’d_ been pushed out of the country thirty years ago. 

“The antaam are the eyes, hands, and mouth of the Qunari. We are how my people know the world.” 

“Antaam?” Surana furrowed her brow. Probably the word for _army_. “Your army is how your people . . . know the world? Doesn’t that make your view of things a little skew--that was rude. I’m so sorry.” 

Sten snorted. “Skewed compared to what?” 

“I. . .” Surana opened her mouth to answer and then rubbed her chin. “Huh. That’s. . . actually a really good question. I apologize.” 

“What does anyone truly know of the world? The world changes. We change. The antaam observes what we can, just as you do.” 

Surana dropped her head in acknowledgement of his point and then lifted it again. “Why did you come to Ferelden, then? I mean, specifically.” 

“To answer a question.” 

She wasn’t sure if this was the Qunari version of “twenty questions” or if Sten was being deliberately obtuse, but her curiosity was immediately piqued. “What was the answer?” 

“Were you not at Ostagar when the army was overwhelmed?” Sten crossed his arms. “ _That_ is your answer.” 

“So the question was about the blight?” She nodded to herself. “Well, don’t you have to report back then?” 

“Yes.” Sten rolled his shoulders back. His eyes, however, did not leave her face. She couldn’t figure out if that was just how he looked at people or if he was sizing her up for a fight. It felt like both. 

“When are you going to do that?” She wasn’t going to _keep him_ if duty demanded he be elsewhere. He seemed the sort who would resent being kept from duty and also the sort who took resentment out with his very big, very shiny greatsword. She wanted to avoid that if possible. 

“Never.” Sten dropped his chin a little. “I can not go home.” 

“Oh. . .” Surana’s face fell and she immediately regretted bringing it up. “I know the feeling. You can stay with us then.” 

“...Thank you.” Sten shifted uncomfortably. “Can we move on? We keep the darkspawn waiting.” 

“First thing in the morning, I promise.” Surana said.

* * *

_The rumbling shook her. Into her. Through her. Neria tried to scream but her mouth tasted like blood and rotten meat. She could smell disease and dank and she was jostled about in a throng of bodies. Their skin gave like over ripe fruit when she tried to push against them. But none of that was as bad as what she saw. The Dragon. The Demon. The **God** above her, roaring and spitting out flame so close to her that she could feel the heat start to eat at her skin. Its eyes were empty white orbs. Its teeth were too numerous and too sharp to fit in the massive jaw the fire sprang from. She was going to die. It was calling her. Calling her._

She woke up with Stanton pawing concerned at her chest. He licked her face as she came awake and Surana pushed him aside as best she could while pinned mostly beneath his bulk. “I’m fine,” she choked out. “I’m fine, Stanton, get--off.” She gave him another shove and he rolled to his back, tongue lolled out as though he expected her to rub his stomach. 

Her mouth still tasted like blood. 

“Bad dreams, huh?” 

She looked over at where Alistair was sitting in his tunic and a pair of plain pants, illuminated in the the dull firelight. She gave him a shaky smile and reached up to start braiding her hair. “Must have been something I ate.” 

“Drank, more like.” Alistair said with a bit of a cheeky smile. “As in the tainted blood, remember?” 

“Mmm, how could I forget?” She shook her head and turned to spit, hoping it would clear some of the imagined rust flavor out of her mouth. It did nothing. 

“Part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That’s what the dreams are, us hearing them.” Alistair propped his head up with his hand and looked back into the fire. “The Archdemon, it . . . “talks” to the horde and we feel it just as they do. That’s why we know this is really a Blight.” 

Surana shuddered. She looked around and noticed that Stanton was holding a water skin loosely in his teeth. She scratched his ears, took it, and took a long drink, swishing the water around before spitting again. Better. “Is this. . . Alistair, is this going to happen a lot?” 

“It takes a bit, but eventually you learn to block the dreams out. Some of the older Grey Wardens said they could even understand the Archdemon a bit, but,” he shrugged, “I sure can’t.” 

Surana walked over to where he was sitting and settled on the ground beside him while she tied off her braid. 

“Anyhow,” he cleared his throat, “when I heard you thrashing around, I thought I should tell you. It was scary at first for me too.” 

Surana chuckled a little, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around her bent knees. “Maker help me, I don’t think I’ll be able to get back to sleep after that.” She shook her head and rested a hand on Stanton when he came over to sit with her. “Luckily, I think it’s my watch next anyway. Or maybe it’s Leliana’s, I can’t remember what we agreed on.” Surana rubbed her forehead, still trying to clear away the last remnants of the dream. “Thank you, Alistair. I appreciate it.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” he settled a hand on her shoulder and gave a small squeeze. “To deliver unpleasant news and witty one liners.”

Surana laughed. 

“So, why didn’t you set up a tent?” Alistair asked.

“I was tired,” Surana defended. “And. . . I don’t know. I’ve never really gotten the chance to sleep under the stars, at least not before Duncan took me from the Tower. It’s a nice change and it’s clear that the weather’s going to be fine.”

“And if it suddenly wasn’t?” 

Surana shrugged. “I imagine I would get wet and Stanton would whine at me.” 

Alistair pulled himself to standing and offered her a hand. “Fair enough. I’m going to get some more sleep.” 

“You do that.” Surana replied. “I’ll wake you in the morning.” 

Alistair disappeared back into his tent and Surana settled to sitting on her mat, Stanton’s head dropping into her lap as he drifted back off to sleep. Leliana was on watch and she came over to sit beside her, bow strung and set down within easy arm’s reach. 

“Can’t sleep?” Leliana asked. 

Surana shook her head. “Not really. I’ll try again in a bit.” She let her hands move idly over Stanton’s neck, taking comfort in his weight on her legs. Like a lovable, warm, vaguely drooling rock. “Can I ask you something, Leliana?” 

“What?”

“About . . . your vision . . .”

Leliana sighed. “I knew this would come up sooner or later. I had a dream. In it, the world was being swallowed up by a terrible darkness. I stood upon a peak as the darkness swallowed everything and when the last of the sunlight was eaten up . . . I fell, and the darkness drew me in.” 

“You dreamed of the Blight?” Surana rubbed her eyes with one hand. “That sounds familiar.” 

“I suppose it was, that was the darkness, no?” Leliana smiled and looked over into the fire. “When I woke, I went out to the gardens, as I usually did, but something had changed. The rosebush was flowering. Everyone knew the bush was dead, it was grey and gnarled,” she gave a musical laugh, “the _ugliest_ thing you’ve ever seen. But there it was, a beautiful, single rose. It was as though the Maker stretched out his hand to say, ‘Even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty. Have faith.’ And I did.” 

“And that made you want to help me?” Surana shook her head. “ _Us_. Andraste--I still don’t know why I’m making decisions.” 

“In the dream, I fell . . .or maybe I jumped. I’d do anything to stop the Blight, and I know we can do it. There are so many _good_ things in the Maker’s world. How can I sit by while the Blight devours everything?” 

Surana chuckled. She tossed a stick into the fire. It cracked and popped and then she started to take her braid down, a nervous habit when her fingers had nothing else to do. “In the tower the Chantry told us that the Maker has left us.”

“He is still here.” Leliana confirmed with a child’s fervent belief. “I hear him in the wind and the waves, I feel him when the sunlight warms my skin. I know what the Chantry says about the Maker, but what should I believe? What I feel in my heart or what others tell me?”

Surana shrugged. “Believe what feels right to you. I’m an elvhen mage. Maybe if they’re wrong about the Maker, they’re wrong about _me_.”

Leliana chuckled. “I believe they are.” 

They sat there in the darkness for a while longer, the embers died out and Leliana stirred them with a stick. “So, why Stanton?” 

“Hmm?” Surana gave the Mabari a pat. “I named him for . . . a friend of mine, in the tower.” 

Stanton huffed and buried his head in her lap. He farted once and Surana shook her head with a laugh. “They’re not _overly_ alike.” 

“He must have been a dear friend.” 

“He was. Insofar as we were allowed, anyway.” She raised a hand to stop the question before Leliana could ask it. “Anyway, what was it like being a cloistered sister? You’re . . . not what I would have expected.” 

“Not what you would have expected?” 

“They don’t teach you to fight in the cloister, do they?” Surana raised an eyebrow. 

Leliana shook her head. “Did you think I was _always_ a cloistered sister? The chantry provides succor and safe harbor to all who seek it. I chose to stay become affirmed.” 

“So...?” Surana asked. 

“I was a traveling minstrel in Orlais. People rewarded my tales and songs with applause and coin.” 

“And the fighting?”

“You pick up different skills when you travel, yes?” Leliana scooted about a half-inch away, clearly uncomfortable. 

Surana decided to let the topic drop. “So what was it like, in the Cloister?” 

“Quiet.” Leliana rested her arm on one bent knee. “Away from the flurry and fuss of the cities I found peace, in the stillness I could hear the Maker. It was a life well suited for contemplation.” The edge of her mouth curved into a sweet smile and she looked back at Surana, eyes catching the fire light, “It was not perfect. Some of my Chantry fellows could be . . . condescending. That is the nature of religious folk, I suppose.” 

“You are literally the _first_ sister I’ve gotten along with.” Surana said by way of agreement. 

“When I spoke to them of my belief --that the Maker is still here--they . . .treated me with disdain. They _want_ to believe that he is gone so that when he turns his gaze to them it makes them special . . . chosen. They want to believe that he can not possibly have love for all. For the sick and the weary, the beggars and the fools.” 

“The mages and the elves?” Surana looked down at Stanton. 

“Exactly.” 

“I prefer your ideas to the Chantry’s.” 

“Thank you. Maybe I’m wrong, but if I am, it is the Maker’s right to decide if I am worthy, not mens. Not the Chantry.” Leliana pushed herself to standing. “But you should try and sleep.”

“Goodnight, Leliana. And Thank you.”


End file.
